Chapter 21
LYRA
Four hours of keeping my head down and routing everything through Anya while answering Julian’s emails with clipped, professional sentences that contain zero warmth.
Four hours of not looking at his office door.
Four hours of not thinking about those photos of men with broken fingers and broken faces, Julian looming over them.
Then the my desk phone rings.
“My office,” Julian says. “Now.”
For a moment, I consider not going. It’d be simple… ish. I could send him a polite email, letting him know that all event updates can be rerouted through Anya, and that my schedule is fully committed for the remainder of the workday.
Or I could take it a step further. I could turn in a boilerplate resignation, leave, take the E train home, and pretend that the last three weeks of my life were nothing more than a strange, bad dream.
I go to his office.
My stomach tightens with each step I take down the hall. I am scared of Julian now. Genuinely scared. But I keep walking.
When I reach his door, I pause for a moment, closing my eyes and considering marching back the other way. But I don’t.
I knock lightly.
“Come in.”
When I open the door, he’s standing by the window. His jacket is off, and I can see the faint outline of the bandage beneath his shirt. He turns when I walk in and scans me the way he always does, as if making sure I’m safe and intact.
I look at his desk, because looking at him feels too intense.
“Close the door.”
“I’d rather leave it open.”
“Lyra. Close the damn door.”
I sigh heavily, then close the door.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” he says.
“I’ve been working.”
“You’ve been hiding in your office behind your laptop.” He slowly moves closer, as if he can sense my fear. “Talk to me. What’s going on?”
I clear my throat.
“There’s nothing to talk about. We agreed we’d keep it business from here on out, remember?”
“Then why won’t you look at me?”
Because if I look at him, I’ll look at his hands, and if I see his hands, I’ll think back to the photographs.
And if I think back to the photographs, I’ll have to reconcile the fact that the man who used those hands to tie a child’s shoelaces the other day so gently also used those hands to hurt, maybe even kill.
“Look at me,” he says.
I lift my eyes and meet his gaze.
“Now, tell me what’s going on.”
No sense in dragging it out. I’m not going to attempt to lie either—he’d see through it right away.
“Alexander caught up with me yesterday on my way to the new venue.”
I can see his body tense up a little.
“He showed me pictures on his phone,” I continue. “A warehouse… the shooters… what you did to them.”
Silence.
“And?” he asks finally.
“And Julian? One of them had a broken jaw, the other’s fingers were—”
“Broken. Yes. I broke them.”
His tone is so flat, so cold. He doesn’t defend himself, doesn’t say it wasn’t what it looked like. He doesn’t tell me I don’t understand his world or that I found out something I shouldn’t have.
He confirms it with the same demeanor he has when discussing budgets.
“Those men tried to kill you,” he says. “They tried to kill Anya. They put a bullet through Ethan’s shoulder. If they had the chance, they would’ve come into the venue and executed you. I found them. I hurt them. And I extracted the information I needed. That’s what happened in that warehouse.”
I don’t know what to say. I suppose I’m used to Alexander’s excuses and equivocating. Julian isn’t like that—not at all.
“And you don’t feel any certain way about it?”
“Of course I feel something about it.” His voice drops. “I feel it every time I look at you and know that the same hands that touch you are the ones that can do that. I live with it. Every day. Do you think I don’t know what I am?”
My chest feels tight, and I can barely breathe.
“And I would do worse if I had to. I will do whatever it takes to keep you safe. To keep Anya safe. To keep those I love from harm. I will not apologize for it. And if that makes me a monster in your eyes, so be it. I’ll be a monster who keeps you alive, whether you like it or not.”
The room suddenly feels very small. My hands are on his chest, his heart beating quickly beneath them.
I know what I want. And I hate myself for it.
“I can’t keep doing this,” I whisper.
“Then stop me.”
I can’t. I won’t.
He takes my face into his hands and leans down, kissing me hard. I pour every bit of myself into the kiss; the fear and attraction I feel for him blended into one potent combination.
I open my mouth and eagerly let his tongue inside, his taste washing over me as my hands fist his shirt. I moan as he takes me by the hips and pulls me against him, his hardness pressing.
Monster, my brain whispers. He broke them for you. He’d break them all for you.
The thought should horrify me. The hands that broke those men’s bones—and maybe even worse—are the same ones on my body.
Julian kisses me harder, backing me toward the desk as he does.
I pull back to breathe and slide down his body, dropping to my knees on the thick rug before he can stop me. I work his belt open with urgency.
“Lyra,” he says, his tone low and sensual. “You don’t have to—”
“I want to.”
I tug his slacks and boxer briefs down in one smooth motion. His cock springs free—hard and glistening at the tip. I wrap my hand around his thick base and look up at him.
The confession he gave me still rings in my ears: I will do worse. I’ll be the monster that keeps you alive.
Guilt and shame twist in my chest but so does something darker and hungrier.
I lean in and take him in my mouth.
A sexy groan escapes from his throat. He’s velvet steel in my mouth, hot and thick as I swirl my tongue around the head and suck. His scent, his taste, floods my senses, and I moan around him, the vibration making his hips jerk.
My free hand cups his balls, rolling them gently while I bob faster, hollowing my cheeks. Tears prick my eyes from the overwhelming rush of power and surrender. This is what I couldn’t stop thinking about while I hid in my office.
Not the broken fingers, not the violence.
Julian. Like this.
Mine.
“Fuck, baby,” he rasps, his fingers weaving through my hair. “Your mouth… damn, you’re perfect.”
I take him as deep as I can, feeling his thighs tremble. I slide my hands up his forearms, over the muscle and the intricate tattoos. I feel filthy and powerful all at once, and it’s intoxicating.
I want him to come. I want to bring him to the edge and then over it. I want to taste every last drop of him.
But before I can, he guides me off, his cock falling out of my mouth with a wet pop.
“Enough.” He sounds wrecked, like it’d taken all the willpower he had to stop me. “I need to feel you come first.”
He hauls me up and spins me, lifting me onto the desk in one fluid motion. He rips my panties aside and sinks two fingers into me without warning.
I’m soaked—shamefully wet—a broken cry falling from my throat as he begins to move his hand.
“That’s it,” he growls. He curls his fingers against the spot that makes stars explode behind my eyes. “Let me feel how much you need this—how much you need me.”
He moves in and out, kissing along the curve of my neck as his fingers work me. I’m practically whimpering as he touches me. The pleasure begins building right away, tight and hot between my thighs.
His thumb circles my clit in tight, perfect strokes while his fingers pump in and out. The first orgasm hits fast. I shatter around him with a choked sob, my walls clenching hard. I dig my nails into his shoulders, coming so hard my vision tunnels, my thighs shaking around his wrist.
He doesn’t give me time to recover. He yanks my skirt up higher and steps between my legs.
“Come here,” he orders.
I wrap my legs around him as he palms my ass. He enters me all the way to the hilt in one perfect stroke, burying himself deep.
The angle is perfect. His pelvis grinds against my clit with every snap of his hips. Sweat beads on his chest where his shirt hangs open, right on the inked north star over his heart. I cling to him, legs locked at his lower back, as he fucks me like he’s trying to claim me for all time.
The second orgasm builds faster than the first, a rolling wave that crashes over me while he drives in deep. I come while moaning his name and pulsing around his cock. He slows just enough to ride me through it, forehead pressed to mine, that gunmetal stare locked onto my eyes.
“Again,” he growls. “With me.”
He pulls out abruptly, spinning me and bending me over the desk. Julian nudges my legs wider and slams back in me from behind. The position is rougher and deeper. Every thrust jolts me forward, the wet slap of skin echoing in the office.
Julian reaches around and rubs my clit, his other hand gripping my hip. I push back against him, meeting every stroke while chasing the next orgasm, even though I’m still shaking from the first two.
“Julian… I can’t—”
“You can.” His voice cracks with raw need. “Come on my cock, Lyra. I want to feel you fall apart.”
That’s all it takes. The third orgasm rips through me. Julian follows with a guttural moan, hips stuttering as he buries himself deep. We come together—hot, pulsing, and endless—his release flooding deep inside. The pleasure is so intense that it borders on pain.
He keeps moving through it, slow, grinding strokes that milk every last tremor from both of us until we’re spent, our breathing ragged.
He pulls out gently, then turns me and gathers me into his arms. Julian sinks into the leather desk chair, setting me sideways across his lap like I weigh nothing.
He strokes my back, slow and soothing, kissing my temple, my cheek, the corner of my mouth.
The kisses are tender, reverent. I close my eyes and focus on them, on the sensation of his lips against my skin.
“I’ve got you,” he whispers against my skin. “Always.”
My gaze flicks to the office door, my eyes going wide as I realize that it’s still the middle of the damn work day.
“Don’t worry,” he says, sensing my mini-freakout. “Soundproof.”
I heave a sigh of relief. “Good. I got a little loud back there. Sorry.”
“No apologizing,” he says. Not for anything.”
I curl tighter against his chest, my ear over his heart, hearing the steady thump beneath the bandage. I trace the edge of the gauze carefully.
I was mad at him for bringing me into this world, mad that he’d been so stubborn about seeking proper medical treatment.
But sitting there on his lap, tracing the gauze, I realize what he did for me, how he risked his life, taking a bullet that was intended for me.
Whatever this man is, he’s not just talk.
I know what you are. And I’m still here.
I don’t need to say the words. His arms tighten around me, one hand slipping beneath my blouse to rub warm circles over my bare back. We stay like that, half-clothed, in the afterglow.
This is him. The monster and the man holding me in his arms.
And there’s no place else I’d rather be.